


Intention

by The_Sinking_Ship



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Confessions, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, Happy Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Harry, Prompt Fill, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Smoking After Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29522634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sinking_Ship/pseuds/The_Sinking_Ship
Summary: Harry really ought to listen to whatever Ron is saying, but it becomes impossible to focus when a familiar figure across the pub curls his fingers around another man’s tie. And when that man leans in with a wolfish smile, Harry sees red, and all he can think ismine.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 43
Kudos: 585
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	Intention

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Замысел](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29866458) by [impostora1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impostora1/pseuds/impostora1)



> Kinkuary 2021, Day 5 - Possessiveness/Jealousy
> 
> I've clearly thrown the Kinkuary calendar out the window because this is like... 12 days late. But I'm weak for a bit of possessive!Harry so I just couldn't resist.
> 
> Thank you to my Kinkuary hero, [Uphorie](https://uphorie.tumblr.com/), for the beta <3

“Mark my words, Harry, based on the way McCallum is playing, this is going to be the Cannons’ year! You’ve seen him, haven’t you? Bloody legend, he is. There are even rumours that they’ve upped their training routine, invested in new brooms. They’re going to make it to the cup this time, I can _feel_ it!” Ron’s gestures a bit wildly, causing his lager to spill over the lip of his pint glass.

“Mm, yes. Definitely,” Harry says, distracted, leaning just slightly into his elbow to better peer over Ron’s shoulder.

“Are you even listening to me, mate?”

“It’s their year. Definitely going to get the cup,” Harry mumbles.

Ron spins around on his stool to stare across the pub blearily, attempting to follow Harry’s line of sight. Harry winces and shifts his focus at the last moment, settling on some woman propped against the end of the bar.

“What, her?” Ron asks incredulously, turning back towards Harry with a shake of his head. “Might want to give those beer goggles you’re wearing a bit of wipe, because you’re not seeing straight.”

Ron isn’t wrong about that; Harry isn’t seeing straight in the slightest. He feels a bit bad about it, really. He rarely has time alone with Ron these days, not since the Wheezes opened their second location in Hogsmeade, and definitely not since the baby. When Ron asked him to grab a pint after Harry finished his patrols with the other Aurors, he just blurted out the first pub that came to mind. It was in the neighbourhood, convenient, and served those curry chips Harry liked. But if he’d stopped and used his brain for one second, he would have reconsidered, because this is _their_ pub.

It’s a nondescript sort of place with wood-panelled walls, wobbly stools, and dark vinyl booths that creak when you sink into them. But it is also dark, and a touch shady; the sort of place where no one cares what you get up to, where no one seems to notice that your glamour is fraying at the edges. Because glamours are _his_ thing, not Harry’s. And the bloke across the bar is definitely wearing a glamour, one of Harry’s favourites, in fact. The bastard could never just pick a plain one, like the one Harry currently wore (and the only one he could manage to maintain after a couple lagers), with the lanky hair and mud brown eyes. No, his were always bloody gorgeous. Harry knows this particular one takes minimal spell work and only certain details are changed. It’s just enough to make him unrecognisable — unrecognisable to anyone but Harry, that is.

This glamoured man also has one long-fingered hand wrapped around the burgundy necktie of some bloke who is probably looking back with hungry eyes, and Harry thinks his blood might boil right over. He sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, returning his attention to Ron to keep his head from exploding.

Ron is starting to look at him funny — his eyes narrowing and his mouth scrunching to one side in the way that implies Harry is very close to revealing himself. Harry decides it’s time for a Hail Mary.

“So, how’s Rose? ‘Mione told me her first tooth came in.”

Ron’s face brightens and he’s off, describing Hermione’s brilliant soothing spells designed to get the baby through the teething stage, something that resulted from three straight nights kept awake by Rose’s near constant wailing. Harry feels a stab of guilt at using his adored goddaughter that way, but he needs to keep Ron talking. He has to do anything to keep himself on his stool, to keep from stalking across the bar and throttling the man in the glamour.

It isn’t like they have a deal or anything. There is no arrangement — not one made with words or conversations in broad daylight, at least. And if anyone were to ask, Harry would say it was nothing more than scratching an itch. Scratching a very attractive itch that only sometimes stuck around for breakfast and maybe listened to a game on the wireless once or twice. And sent an owl with a custom batch of Pepper-Up when Harry had a nasty case of spattergroit.

But it was just sex. Brilliant sex. A _lot_ of brilliant sex. It started in this very bar after a long night spent coordinating an illegal potions bust. Harry’s team was knackered and went shuffling home as soon as the raid was over, but Harry always found the blood singing in his veins after a successful arrest. He knew he was hours from sleep. He didn’t have any intention of pulling, but he wasn’t necessarily opposed. Harry skipped the glamour that night. His chances were better that way, not that he was looking.

Harry saw him across the pub, also without a glamour, sipping primly from a tumbler of clear liquor. Harry could feel that sharp gaze the second it landed on him and, never one to think about his actions too deeply, Harry bought him a drink. And then another. And then he coaxed him home with a promise of something stronger and far more expensive that they never got around to drinking.

Harry shakes himself from the memory. Ron is still talking, but Harry’s attention is entirely on the men across the pub because the one wearing the glamour has just leaned forward and whispered in the other’s ear. Harry feels the jealousy like a hot lance through his gut and he chokes on his sip of lager.

“Alright, Harry?” Ron asks, pounding Harry once on the back.

“Fine,” Harry manages.

They’re too close together, the men across the bar, and Harry can’t look away. And then the man wearing the glamour hooks one finger into the other’s belt loop and bites his lip in _that way_ and Harry’s pint explodes on the table, shards of glass flinging themselves halfway across the room.

“Fucking hell!” Ron exclaims. “What just happened?”

He’s looking at Harry wide-eyed, but Harry hardly notices because now the two on the other side of the pub are looking at him, one with a frown, the other with a familiar simmering smirk. The man steps away from his companion and with a last look at Harry, slips away down the dark hallway towards the toilets.

“Sorry,” Harry says, eyes trained on the hallway. “I guess my grip was a bit tight.”

“Uh huh, right,” Ron says, one eyebrow raised. “Especially since you weren’t even holding it.”

“I have to—” Harry stammers, hopping down from his bar stool and gesturing towards the toilets. “Clean up,” he finishes weakly.

Ron just rolls his eyes and waves him off, but Harry is already stalking toward the back, shooting a final seething glare towards the man with the burgundy tie.

The door to the men’s flies open and slams against the wall without Harry even touching it, and he snarls. He really needs to get himself under control, but he feels hot all over and just can’t seem to get his head on straight. He drops his glamour immediately.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” He has one hip propped against the sinks, arms crossed over his chest.

“Me? It’s my pub.”

He snorts. “Your pub? Please.”

“Why are _you_ here? And why are you wearing —” Harry gestures to the glamour, eyes catching on the angular cheekbones, the full lips that are almost familiar but not quite. “ _Him?”_

The man preens, running one hand through the dark blond hair. “I like him.”

“No, _I_ like him, and you know it.”

“Oh come on, Potter, everyone likes him. He’s gorgeous.”

Harry lifts one hand. It floats in the air between them for a few seconds, then he threads his fingers through the wavy, sand-coloured locks. The man smirks and Harry feels it like a punch — too bloody familiar. Harry’s fingers tighten, grabbing a fistful of hair. The man gasps and Harry drags him, stumbling closer. He is taller than Harry, but his knees give way just a touch and Harry has the opportunity to look down at him.

“Change,” Harry says. The word comes out a growl and the sea glass eyes widen slightly in response.

“No.”

“Draco.” Harry says, fingers tightening until the familiar smirk flickers into a wince.

“I can’t, you idiot. We’re in public. We’ll be _seen.”_

Harry doesn’t care about that. He’s never cared about that. But he thinks Draco might care. He must. It’s just one more part of the deal that goes unspoken, although Harry supposes there is something addictive and incendiary in the secrecy.

Harry releases the hand in Draco’s hair and shoves him, hard. Draco catches his footing easily — the bastard is so lithe and graceful sometimes it pisses Harry off. He lets Harry crowd him into the nearest toilet stall, falling back a step with each prowling stride. Harry slams the door with a backward kick of his foot. He grabs a fistful of Draco’s collar, crumpling the crisp, white cotton shirt in his hand, inordinately annoyed at the way it is unbuttoned far too low— the way Draco wears it when he wants attention, the way he _always_ bloody wears it. Harry uses the leverage to spin Draco, pressing him against the door, and gets a thigh between his legs.

Draco lets out a noisy exhale at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering.

“Drop the glamour, Draco,” Harry demands.

The pale blue eyes currently trained on Harry’s own swim slightly, then flash, swirling into Draco’s sharp, mercurial stare. The eyes are always the first to go. The jaw is next — narrowing and angling, cheekbones hollowing to devastating depths. The lips thin slightly and the nose elongates to aquiline elegance. The hair pales and lengthens, tumbling across one newly arched brown in fine strands like corn silk. Harry can see the way Draco’s lip twitches towards a sneer and his jaw works. He knows that the flicker in Draco’s eye means he wants desperately to avert his gaze. _You can be really intense, Harry_ , he’s said. Harry supposes it's true, but sometimes he can’t look away, though it might be the polite thing to do. They’ve long since passed polite. Hell, Harry isn’t sure they were ever there in the first place.

“I thought you said you liked him,” Draco says tightly.

“He’s softer than you are.”

Draco’s mouth pinches in and his nose twitches.

“You always did like the soft, pretty ones, Potter.”

“Since when?”

Draco clicks his tongue. “I’ve seen who you date. Lovely things to bring home to Mummy Weasel. I bet they cook you supper and do the tidying up, don’t they? I bet they straighten your collar and kiss you on the cheek before you go to work. I bet they say, ‘come home soon, darling. I’ll be thinking of you. I’ll have the roast ready when you get home. Keep the pudding warm with my pathetic little warming spells.’ Isn't that right, Harry?”

Harry frowns and grinds his teeth, releasing his hold on Draco’s collar to place his hand against the cool metal of the door behind Draco’s head. He leans in and holds his gaze mercilessly, refusing to let him shrink away. Draco liked to talk shit about Harry’s girlfriends and boyfriends, and Harry was inclined to let him. He liked the way the colour burned on Draco’s cheeks when he talked about them, so clearly imagining Harry with them, just like the way Harry imagined him with random strangers in bars.

“You’re right, they do,” Harry says.

“How nice for you,” Draco says with a sneer. “Or rather, how pathetic. Since you always wind up right back here. With _me_. Why do you think that is, hm?” Draco shifts his hips until they align with Harry’s and he can feel the steel-hard length of Draco’s dick in his too-tight trousers. “Because I bet I can guess.”

Harry is certain he can’t. Certain he has no bloody idea that Harry’s desire has long-since morphed into something else, something big and aching that sits heavily in his chest all the fucking time. But he just licks his lips and tilts his head, keeping the groan that is threatening to fight its way out held so tightly in his chest that it hurts.

“It’s because they don’t suck cock like I do.” Draco’s voice is a hiss, pitched low even though they are the only ones in the room. “Because they don’t know you like it rough, that you get hard when they beg. It would be unsavoury, wouldn’t it? To be as powerful as Harry Potter and still like it better when they’re on their knees. Debased. Debauched. Owned.”

Harry swallows hard. “And you think you do? You think you know what I like?”

Draco’s pinched expression slides into something more indulgent, something wicked. “Of course. I’m the only one who does.”

Harry’s hands ball into fists beside Draco’s head. He wants to punch something. He wants to leave dents in the metal with his knuckles. He wants to kiss Draco so hard it hurts, to leave bite marks across his throat because it’s always on display and writing his name across it in permanent marker wouldn’t go over so well.

Draco smiles lasciviously, likely seeing the fires light behind Harry’s eyes, the possessive gleam that twists his expression. He can’t help it, he’s just this way. It scares people. It makes them flinch, makes them cringe away in fear, those soft ones with their tender hearts. Because Draco is right. He’s so fucking right and god damn it, Harry hates it when he’s right.

“I think you should kiss me now, Harry,” Draco says.

It would have been a silly thing to say, were it anyone else. But Draco knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows that if Harry kisses him, he’s going to take him home. They’re going to leave Ron and that nameless dipshit with the tie checking their watches and staring at the bathroom door, because they aren’t coming back.

“You sure about that?” Harry asks.

Draco’s smile grows teeth. “Completely.”

Harry doesn’t need to be asked twice. He plunges both hands into Draco’s hair and holds it fast as he crushes their mouths together. Draco yields to him with a sigh and Harry can feel the smirk melt from his parted lips, tongue darting out to brush against his and sending a starburst of lust exploding in Harry’s belly. 

Draco’s hands are on him immediately, working their way under his leather jacket to run down Harry’s sides. He tucks long fingers into the back of Harry’s jeans and with a tug, drags Harry closer. Harry continues to kiss him, desperate and messy, all tongue and teeth, growing wilder with the maddening little circles Draco makes with his hips. He’s like that, always moving, twisting, grinding — never still. Harry loves it. Nothing turns him on like desperation; desire so heady it turns expressions glassy and bodies pliant. And no one does it like Draco does. Harry has to work for it every time, but once Draco gives in and gives up, fuck, it’s gorgeous. And Harry wants it. Wants him. Badly. Right fucking now.

Harry bites at Draco’s bottom lip, tugs it between his teeth as he gets a firm grip on the backs of Draco’s thighs. Draco draws back from their kiss, his eyes lighting the moment he realises what’s coming. Harry braces his stance and pulls hard, sweeping Draco’s legs from underneath him to wrap around Harry’s waist.

A breathy laugh escapes Draco’s lips but he goes easily, locking his ankles behind Harry’s back, the fingers of one hand curled over the top of the door to brace himself, while the other hand clings to the front of Harry’s t-shirt.

“Fucking brute,” Draco says as his head falls back against the metal door with a thunk and Harry attacks that long, pale expanse of neck with his mouth and teeth.

It’s good like this, but not nearly enough. Harry’s cock drags deliciously against the crack of Draco’s arse, but dammit all, the man’s trousers are so bloody tight that Harry can hardly get any purchase and he’s half afraid he’ll end up just tearing the seams and Draco would never let him hear the end of it. He’d also indubitably pick the most expensive tailor in London for the repairs and send Harry the bill.

Draco groans when Harry’s lips find the sensitive spot behind his ear and Harry feels another sharp stab of lust that causes him to grind even harder against the body pinned in front of him.

It’s more than a little undignified, they way they find themselves rutting against surfaces, grinding against each other in the backs of pubs again and again. They’re grown men, for Merlin’s sake, not teenagers. A bit of rubbing shouldn’t be so bloody hot. It shouldn’t be enough to get Harry leaking into his boxer briefs. It shouldn’t be enough to make Draco curse colourfully.

“Ah — fuck, Harry,” he gasps, hips stuttering slightly, losing the rhythm of their little circles.

The door to the toilet is rattling, squeaking on its weak hinges, and Draco is making desperate sounds that echo in the empty room because he just never shuts up. It’s then that Harry realises he’s forgotten the silencing spell, as well as the locking charm, and just anyone could walk in at any moment and hear them, hear _Draco_ and his pathetic whines. Just the thought has Harry snarling against Draco’s vulnerable throat. He hates the idea of anyone else being privy to Draco’s mewls of pleasure. Those were for Harry alone.

Harry tries to kiss him quiet, but Draco keeps it up, panting and cursing against Harry’s mouth.

“H-Harry,” he says and it is almost a whimper. It means he’s close.

“Already?” Harry says with a nip to his jaw, tightening his grip on the undersides of Draco’s thighs. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Draco knocks his head against the door again. Harry wants to reprimand him for that. He’ll hurt himself and he isn’t bloody _allowed._ Only Harry is allowed to hurt him. They have a deal, unspoken though it is.

“Then touch me,” he begs.

“And let you make a mess? No way.”

Draco’s responding laugh is a thready, high-pitched giggle that only serves to make that hot, churning thing in Harry’s gut turn molten.

“Take me home, then. Fuck me properly.”

“That’s what you want?”

Draco just nods and Harry kisses him hard. Then, with a final thrust of his hips to pin Draco harder against the door, he braces his grip on Draco’s thigh with his left hand, and touches his wand with his right and thinks _home._ Thinks _now._ And everything twists and goes dark.

It isn’t Harry’s smoothest landing. He’s distracted and half-drunk, but he manages to drop them smack in the centre of his sitting room. Draco is still wrapped tightly around him and goes down with him when Harry sinks to his knees.

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Draco says, splayed breathless beneath him. He’s tugging at Harry’s jacket, trying to wrench his arms from the sleeves and scrabbling at his t-shirt desperately. Harry takes pity on him and snags the fabric behind his neck and hauls it over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. He’s more focused on the buttons of Draco’s shirt - small, fiddly little things that only seem to become smaller and more fiddly when Harry needs to get to flesh. He finally manages to get them undone and rewards himself with the taste of skin. Draco flushes prettily when he’s turned on and Harry likes to feel that heat against his tongue, likes to feel it burn hotter when he pulls it between his teeth. And if he leaves marks behind, bruises and imprints of his teeth, well, all the better.

Harry sits back on his heels and works open the clasp of Draco’s posh trousers, tears at the zip, strips the cloth from his legs, taking shoes and socks with them.

Harry is good at this, at divesting Draco of clothing as quickly as possibly, entirely out of necessity, because if Harry had his way, Draco would never need to bother with clothes again. He was striking in robes and Muggle bespoke alike, self-possessed and confident, but it only made Harry want to tear away the layers faster, to get straight to skin and scars, where Harry could check for marks, could clock the teeth marks, rug burns, indentations of fingerprints that didn’t belong to him.

It isn’t supposed to be this way. _Harry_ isn’t supposed to be this way. He’s tried to stop it, but the jealousy is always burning low beneath the skin, fuelling his arousal into catastrophic flames. He thinks of the other man in the bar, the way Draco leaned into him, the way the man’s eyes raked across Draco’s lithe frame, desire clouding his eyes. It makes Harry seethe. It makes him wild. It makes him _angry._

“Did he touch you?” he hisses as he tugs a nipple between his teeth, his hands planted on either side of Draco’s narrow shoulders, caged by Harry’s larger frame.

Draco groans. “What?”

“The man in the pub. Did he touch you?” Harry sucks too hard on skin and Draco’s spine curves like a bow.

“Merlin, Harry, I just met him.”

“You’ll let anyone touch you, won’t you,” he snaps. It isn’t a question, but an accusation.

He hears Draco’s indignant hiss, but Harry ignores it, trailing biting kisses down Draco’s chest, over his navel, across his jutting hip bones.

“And so what if I did?” Draco says. He sounds angry, but then moans as Harry runs fingernails up his thighs, splayed wide to accommodate Harry between them.

He bites at the soft flesh at the inside of Draco’s thigh in punishment and he yelps. Harry follows it with an indulgent lathe of his tongue to soothe the red mark.

“You didn’t answer my owl,” Draco gasps.

Harry stills, confused. “What?”

He glances up, distracted by the lovely, blotchy blush across Draco’s chest. But while Draco’s long fingers should have been threading into Harry’s curls like usual, they are instead thrown over his face, covering his eyes.

“I sent you an owl,” he says, muffled by his hands. “About the St. Mungo’s Foundation Gala at the hospital.”

Harry frowns and pushes himself up on his forearms, even though it brings him into direct eye line with Draco’s still very hard cock, which is extraordinarily distracting.

“You were serious about that?”

“Apparently not,” Draco mumbles.

Harry hesitates. He spreads his fingers across Draco’s hipbones and watches his stomach muscles jump, mesmerised. He’d thought very little of the invitation when he received it, buried as it was in Harry’s usual heaping stack of mail. He supposes he half-wondered if Draco was inviting him, then quickly dismissed it, because Draco never invited him to go anywhere other than bed, certainly not to events at his work, usually opting for some Healer trainee as arm candy, leaving Harry at home seeing red.

It takes Harry a moment, probably longer than it would have if Draco weren’t splayed out naked on his carpet, but it starts to piece together in his mind. It is his job, after all, putting together puzzles with too few clues, getting people to admit things that have no intention of admitting. The timing is just too convenient. And Draco can’t fool him, though he may try.

“That stunt in the bar?” Harry says. “Very subtle.”

“I needed a date.”

Harry drags his hands from Draco’s hips to snake behind him and grip his arse firmly. He squeezes hard, dragging Draco closer. His thighs fall open even wider, wanton, though his face is still covered with his arms. Harry runs his fingers across Draco’s erection, red and straining against his stomach, then tightens the circle of his fist around the base, a touch too tight. He sees Draco’s jaw tighten, teeth grinding together.

“I wanted you to see,” Draco says, voice thin.

Harry knew it. He bloody knew it. Draco wasn’t in his bar, _their_ bar, by accident. Draco liked to play games, liked to watch Harry chase him, drooling and nipping at his heels like a crup.

“Mistake,” Harry says.

“Maybe.” The arms covering Draco’s face fall away and Harry finds himself caught in that shifting storm cloud stare.

“You’re sick,” Harry says, though he’s half saying it to himself.

But Draco hisses back, “Yes.”

Harry casts a wordless, wandless lubrication charm, his palm filling with translucent liquid. “Don’t do it again,” he says, rubbing the slick between his fingers. He trails the fingers over Draco’s hips and over his cock, leaving a shining trail in its path. He drops them between the cleft of Draco’s arse and a delicious tremor wracks his body. Harry presses in just a little, just enough to skate across the soft warm skin, teasing. He’ll never tire of Draco’s arse. It’s bloody fantastic. Best he’s ever had.

“You don’t own me, Harry,” Draco says. Harry meets his eyes, finds them steely and determined and Harry smiles wickedly.

“I do,” he says, and presses that finger inside Draco’s body in one slick slide.

Draco eyes slam shut and he gasps, his back arching beautifully. Harry withdraws the finger and pushes in again, slower this time, but with no more mercy. He works Draco open quickly, so practised in the ways of his body. And when Draco’s hips start rolling to meet Harry’s hand, he crooks his fingers just so and Draco absolutely wails.

“Ha-Harry, please,” he whimpers. It’s music to Harry’s ears, when Draco starts begging. 

He was right when he said Harry likes it rough, likes it desperate, likes it when they beg. He does. But he’s never heard begging sweeter than Draco’s, with that deep voice and posh little accent. It’s so fucking filthy and wrong and it makes him so hard. There are nights when Harry drags it out for ages, for as long as he can possibly stand, until Draco is practically weeping, cock dripping precome across his skin or Harry’s sheets. But Draco will be lucky this time, Harry decides. He isn’t going to make him wait. He can’t.

Harry takes the hand that isn’t buried three fingers deep in Draco’s arse and places it gently around his throat. He leans in close until their mouths are just a breath apart. Draco’s eyes open sluggishly and Harry squeezes his throat lightly, just to watch his eyelids flutter.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

Draco nods, a strained little dip of his chin.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” he says, voice breathy and desperate, just the way Harry likes it. Perfect.

He grabs Draco by the chin roughly and shoves his tongue in his mouth, lapping away the gasps and groans, giving his fingers one final devastating twist that has Draco bucking against him. Then he pulls back, resting on his heels.

“Turn over. On your knees.”

Draco blinks for half a second then flips, pushing to his knees, his palms dragging across the carpet as he pushes up, a feline curve to his spine that Harry traces with with the heel of his hand.

Harry casts the lubrication charm again and coats his cock, hissing at the drag of his own palm over sensitive skin. He gets it wet, absolutely dripping. They’re going to need it because Harry doesn’t fuck slow and easy.

Harry lines himself up and pushes in, tearing a shattering groan from Draco, the arms propping him on all fours shaking, threatening to give way. Draco takes it so well and Harry smiles, pleased, as he gives an experimental thrust of his hips, luxuriating in the tight drag around his cock.

But that’s the only bit of gentleness Draco receives. Harry drives himself into Draco’s body again and again, snapping his hips ruthlessly, fingers digging into the flesh of Draco’s hips and arse, adding possessive fingerprints to trace later with his tongue.

Unbidden, the image of Draco with those hands that belong to Harry curled around another man’s tie pops into his head. He cringes and squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to chase the image away, but all it does is morph into Draco beneath that man, as he is beneath Harry now, gasping and sweating, mouth slack with pleasure, eyes glassy.

Harry can feel his lip curling into a sneer, tries to bury the growl that rumbles in his chest. He grabs a handful of the pale, silky hair that tumbles across the back of Draco’s neck and skims the tops of his angular shoulders and yanks, evoking another gasp.

“Tell me you’re mine,” Harry says, and it sounds wrong, half animal, hardly like words at all.

Draco swallows thickly, the strained angle of his neck probably making it difficult for him to speak, but Harry doesn’t relent.

“No,” Draco rasps.

Harry thrusts harder into his body, causing Draco’s knees to skid on the carpet. Draco groans and the sound makes Harry’s mouth water. He bends over Draco’s body, pressing his chest against Draco’s back, one hand placed next to his on the floor, the other still in his hair, wrenching Draco’s face to the side so Harry can speak directly into his ear.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he says, voice dialled low and sweet, cutting the cruelty and turning it saccharine. “Look at you, desperate for it. Say it.”

He rolls his hips and Draco jolts beneath him. He does it again and Draco trembles.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” Draco whimpers. “Yours, Harry.”

“If you ever let anyone else touch you again, I’ll curse their hands off. I’ll lock them away forever where no one will find them. They’ll beg me on their knees for forgiveness, but it won’t make any difference.”

“ _Harry.”_

“I don’t share.” Harry releases Draco’s hair and pushes back up his knees, settling his hands at Draco’s hips.

He pounds into his willing body relentlessly, mercilessly, and Draco just takes it, whimpering and moaning, head hanging between his shoulders. It’s good, it’s so bloody good and Harry can feel the tingling at the base of his spine start to build into an ache.

Harry hits the right spot and Draco’s left hand shoots back, gripping Harry’s over top his hip.

“Oh my god, right there,” he gasps.

Harry grits his teeth and keeps his angle just so, punching the breath out of Draco’s lungs with each violent thrust. And god, the sounds he makes make Harry feel drunk.

“I’ve got to — I need —” The fingers over Harry’s own on Draco’s hip tighten and Harry understands.

“Do it,” he says. “Make yourself come.”

Because Draco always asks permission. Always. And it makes something in Harry’s chest swell until it feels close to bursting. It sends his desire ratcheting up at alarming speed. It makes him absolutely crazy and he loves it. And then Draco is fisting his own cock, jerking desperately while trying to keep his body upright on just one arm, even as Harry drives ever harder into him. It’s fucking gorgeous and Harry bites his lip to keep from grinning too wide.

“I’m so fucking obsessed with you,” he says, with a squeeze of Draco’s firm arse.

Draco comes. And it’s perfect. His whole body goes taut, for just a few seconds, and then he lets out this sound that Harry hears every night in his dreams, a desperate moan that comes straight from the gut, that always manages to turn Draco’s voice hoarse for hours after they finish.

And Harry doesn’t just see Draco come, he feels it. His arse clamps down so hard on Harry’s cock he sees bloody stars. The hand that was wrapped around Draco’s cock drops to the floor, painted in pearl white, and he braces himself, still gasping out soft little moans as Harry drives into him a final time.

Harry’s orgasm slams into him like a brick wall, and he doubles over, chest against Draco’s back as he empties himself into Draco’s body, so warm and pliant beneath him. It happens in waves, with each minute twitch of his hips, Harry feels the last vestiges of pleasure wrung from him. And then it’s static — white noise just roaring in his ears as he pulls out and collapses next to Draco on the floor, lungs heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

They lay there for a few long minutes, breathing in silence, until Draco rolls away. Harry’s eyes are still closed but he feels the loss of warmth and turns his head to watch Draco crawl across the floor, extract his wand from the heap of clothes, and with a wince, cast a Scourgify at himself, then at Harry. Harry shivers under his magic, then grins. Draco smiles back, a small, secret thing. He gestures with a tip of his chin and Harry nods. He knows what comes next but takes the time to enjoy the view as Draco snags trousers from the floor. It isn’t until he’s stepping into them and disappearing out the door to the little garden at the back of the house, that Harry realises Draco’s just walked off with his jeans. Bastard.

With a roll of his eyes, Harry Accios his favourite pair of threadbare joggers from the drawer upstairs, then follows Draco outside. It’s still early spring and Harry hasn’t got around to getting the patio furniture out of the shed and back into the garden, but Draco sits on the bottom stair, his back against one of the large ceramic urns where Harry plants flowers in the summer — or rather, Neville plants them and Harry pays.

Harry sits next to him and Draco automatically stretches out his legs, resting his bare feet in Harry’s lap. He pulls a soft pack of Muggle cigarettes from Harry’s jeans pocket and scowls.

“Marlboro's, Harry?”

Harry smirks and shrugs. “I like what I like.”

Draco mutters, “Disgusting.” But he pulls two cigarettes from the pack, places them both between his lips, and lights them with the only bit of wandless magic he can do, mostly just a party trick Harry taught him a few months back. Or maybe it was last year. He can’t remember. Draco hands one of the cigarettes to Harry as he takes a drag of his own, the smoke curling around his face in a way that Harry finds rather debonair.

Draco blows smoke in perfect rings, and Harry blows rings of his own that chase after Draco’s until they turn to wisps dragged away to nothing in the breeze. They smoke in silence for a while, watching the clouds shifting over the city from the little bubble of Harry’s back garden. Harry curls his free hand around Draco’s bare foot, pressing into the arch with his thumb just to hear him sigh.

“Are you staying?” Harry asks, breaking the silence.

Draco looks at him, his face barely visible in the twilight. “Did you want me to?”

“Course,” Harry says, rolling his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

Draco’s expression does something funny, a sort of spasm. “Course?” he parrots, sounding a touch hysterical.

“You’re always welcome to stay. I thought you knew that.”

“Why the fuck would I know that?” He’s definitely sounding hysterical now. “Merlin, Harry, you’re about as open and inviting as a locked door.”

Harry shrugs. “I like how you cook eggs.”

Draco looks sceptical. “I burnt them.”

“I like how you make coffee.”

“Harry, you make the coffee.”

“I like how you look in my kitchen.”

Draco's expression cracks a little, his sharp brows going soft for half a second before pulling into a frown. “What, like a potted plant? A decorative plate for the wall?”

Harry snorts. “Can you imagine me with a decorative wall plate?”

“Not the point, Potter.”

“It sort of is.”

Draco seems to think about that for a moment. “What are you saying, Harry?”

“I’m saying, stay for breakfast.”

Draco looks wary.

“I’ll cook,” Harry tries.

Draco sighs. He takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette, nearly burning it to the filter in one breath. The smoke pours out of his mouth in a dense cloud that has Harry wanting to tease him about dragons.

“Will you go to the Mungo’s fundraiser with me?”

Harry startles for half a second. Then says, “Sure.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Draco looks incredulous. “You hate them.”

“Yeah.”

“You hate formal robes.”

“Ugh. Yeah.”

“They’ll expect you to make a donation.”

Harry squeezes the ankle in his lap. “That’s fine.”

“You’ll have to make polite conversation with bureaucrats and sycophants.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?” Harry asks with a chuckle.

“I’m trying to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“I know,” Harry says without hesitation.

“Are you certain?”

Harry blows a smoke ring that bursts on Draco’s face, which he bats away with another scowl that Harry finds sort of cute.

“I’m certain,” he says.

****

The next morning, Harry makes the eggs (poached for Draco, scrambled for himself), and the coffee (black for both of them). Draco is wearing Harry’s joggers and Harry is only in his pants because Draco keeps stealing his pyjamas, and he also likes the way Draco’s eyes go blurry when Harry skips a shirt. He wonders if Draco will stick around long enough for them to fuck in the shower, but before he has a chance to ask, a bedraggled-looking owl comes crashing through the kitchen window, nearly spilling Harry’s coffee.

The owl holds out one leg and Harry tugs the scrap of parchment away, then winces. He’d recognise Ron’s messy handwriting any day. The letter doesn’t look like a Howler, so he supposes he ought to count his blessings.

The letter is just a reminder that Sunday dinner will be held at Ron and Hermione’s cottage instead of the Burrow this week, and would Harry please remember to bring something for the salad and an extra bottle of wine this time. And if he wouldn’t mind showing up a bit early because Molly tends to hover over ‘Mione while she cooks, and let’s be honest, Harry is the better cook anyway. That’s why they keep him around after all.

Harry chuckles and Draco’s eyes cut away from the economics section of the Prophet to watch him with narrowed eyes. Harry just smiles at him and sips his coffee, then chokes, because the final line reads:

_And say hello to Malfoy for me. (Don’t even try, Harry. I’d know the patented Malfoy-Is-Up-To-Something look in your eye as well as the back of my hand). He can come to dinner if he wants. Ask him to help you pick out the wine because that swill you showed up with last time left me hungover for a week. See you Sunday!_

“What?” Draco asks, suspicious.

“How are you at picking out wine?”

Draco shoots him a withering look. “Better than you, I’d reckon.”

“You and Ron both. Busy tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Depends on what you want me to do?”

“Dinner at Ron and ‘Mione’s.”

“Ugh. Absolutely not. Are you joking?”

“Afraid not.”

Draco hesitates then. “I can’t go to dinner, Potter. It’ll be a dead giveaway.”

“You want me to go to the fundraiser, how is that different? And anyway, I think it might be a bit too late to hide it now.”

Harry tosses the parchment across the table to Draco and sits back in his chair, sipping his coffee and watching Draco’s face change as he scans the words. He drops it to the table with a scoff.

“Figures you’d give us away. And it’s incredibly different, Potter. This is _family._ ” Draco says it like a dirty word, then sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I have a bottle of Elven white in the cellar, I think. Should suffice as a peace offering for the Weasel.”

“Better bring two if you plan on continuing to call him that.”

Draco inclines his head and lifts a brow. “Good point. Best bring a bottle of the Cabernet while I’m at it. Soften the blow.”

“Some things never change, I guess.” Harry smirks.

“Some things, no.” He looks at Harry. “Other things? Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He glares and gets up to refill his cup, then Harry’s. “Don’t push your luck, Potter.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry says, grabbing the hand that isn’t holding the coffeepot and kisses it. Draco’s fingers flex and curl, but he doesn’t pull away. Harry releases him and he drifts away, but Harry doesn’t mind. He closes his eyes and listens to Draco’s bare feet shuffle across the kitchen floor and smiles.

He could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [ tumblr!](https://the-sinking-ship.tumblr.com/)


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